Running To Live
by Follow-ur-Shadow
Summary: It's euphoric, burning through his senses like fire and he sprints faster completely unaware of the consequences.


**Running to Live**

**Category**: Angst/Tragedy

**Pairing**: None

**Summary**: It's euphoric, burning through his senses like fire and he sprints faster completely unaware of the consequences

**Warnings**: Character death, language

**Disclaimer**: Own nudda.

**Authors Notes**: For the sake of my sanity I had to get this idea down on paper, so it's only a short one :P

He runs until the physical exertion burns in his chest. Until his vision disintegrates under a charcoal vignette and the darkness threatens to swallow his fast momentum. He runs until he can't picture her face or hear her liquid warm voice pooling in his ears.

They say he needs to move on, step up and leave the grief behind.

Well, fuck them.

He slams the ground pounding each step into the weathered dirt. They don't know what it's like, how ill-prepared he is to fill her shoes. The burden of responsibility is pressing down on the weight of her death and it's crushing him, slowly squeezing the strength from his resolve.

It becomes a reality as his lungs scream for air but he doesn't relent.

Ironically this is the only time he feels like he _can_ breathe. When the rush of blood is so loud in his ears there's no room for comprehension, not one accessible thought or memory just the notion that he's running away from 'something' too painful to confront. It's a blissful yet temporary escape because as much as he detests the fact, his mind and body are of two different faculties and his physical limitations set the bar for how long this can go on.

He wonders if one day that will change, if he'll eventually push himself to the point where his body simply gives out.

Will he see her in the interim, a manifestation of his subconscious pleading him to stop?

Would he listen?

God knows if she were to somehow bare witness to his new found coping mechanism she would rain down her disapproval but in another ironic twist of fate there's been no reprieve from the scorching heat since her death. Twenty-eight days of solid sun and all he wants to do is commiserate in storms so violent that not even the Sanctuary could withstand the damage.

Without consent his body slows, allowing a wave of emotion to grip his heart like a vice.

Yes, he's angry.

At her, at the world, at himself. It doesn't matter that he didn't save her, that is wasn't possible or that he couldn't, the truth of the matter is ... he _should_ have. He should have found a way to achieve the impossible, laughed candidly with her over another near miss and then left to thank any power listening because she was safe. It's played out like that enough times he can almost taste the happy ending but reality crumples the dream, cementing him in under the constricting walls of truth; she's gone and he can't change their story.

He pushes harder and the looming oak tress tilt, a blur of heavy emerald washing away the translucent images. He doesn't want to remember how it happened. He doesn't want anything except for the driving beat that's keeping his body in motion, forcing adrenaline to pump rigorously through his veins.

It's euphoric, burning through his senses like fire and he sprints faster completely unaware of the consequences until his hands slam against loose gravel and the air expels entirely from his lungs.

The ground spins and his stomach heaves in response, fighting for breath as an acidic taste bubbles up from his throat. It's bitter and he spits it out amongst a violent coughing fit, struggling to rise through the pain in his chest. When he's lucid enough he notices the drops of water falling one by one in the dirt.

It's nearly enough to make him cry.

He almost doesn't want to face the sight but is too exhausted not to and rolls, blinking through the rain as he lands heavily on his back. Divine intervention or not he knows he's gone too far this time and murmurs an apology but there isn't enough guilt to make him move, or even enough to stop him from repeating the mistake over. The haze is too inviting, numbing his senses to the thoughts lapping his subconscious and the disjointed whispers that he can't quite focus on.

The pain might be bad now but it's nothing compared to what it will feel like when the world finally catches up, pulling him back into a state of awareness.

This is his only escape, his only short reprieve from the demons perched at his stoop and he doesn't know how much longer he can keep them at bay. All he can do is run, pound increasing distance between his heart and his grief and hope that with every inevitable impact, the blow is lessened.

It's a compromise because she would've wanted him to fight, to be strong, to survive... and at the moment he isn't living to run, he's running to live -_for her_- and that needs to be enough.

It has to be.

Because that's all he has left.


End file.
